


After the Storm

by EbonyKnight



Series: Facing the East Wind [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 15:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9392141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight
Summary: Sherlock asked Greg to look after Mycroft, but he would have done that anyway. After making sure that his friend is okay, Greg turns his attention to Sherlock, and helps him to deal with the aftermath of the situation with Eurus. Contains spoilers for The Final Problem.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do no own Sherlock.
> 
> This follows Facing the Wind and Moving Forward. Really not sure what's going on, it probably completely flouts the canon, and I'm being remarkably optimistic about the state Sherlock's flat would be in, but this is what has been floating in my head. I'm blaming a haze of cold remedies and too much tea for the blink-and-you'll-miss-it cameo by the James Bond fandom, although there is something very appealing to me about Gatiss-Mycroft and Finnes-M.
> 
> Not beta'd, all mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Any feedback is welcomed with open arms.

“Not as strong as he thinks he is. Not fucking surprised. Idiots,” Greg muttered to himself as he got out of the taxi and slammed the door closed. He was exhausted, having worked through the night, but the telephone briefing from Anthea on the way over had at least answered some of his questions.

He stared up at Mycroft’s house, noting with relief that the first floor study curtains were open. _Good sign,_ he thought, pulling his phone out. The little time in the taxi not spent in a very cryptic conversation with Anthea had been dedicated to deciding the best way to ensure that Mycroft was well looked after, and he had eventually settled on the direct approach. The first call he made went straight to answerphone and Greg sighed, frustrated. Left with no other option, he flicked through his contacts, searching for the number that he had been warned to only ever use in an emergency, and hit the call button. 

“Eve Moneypenny, how can I help you?” came the smooth voice of Gareth’s secretary. 

“Hi. I don’t know if you remember me, but it’s Greg Lestrade; I was Mycroft Holmes’ best man when he married—”

“Of course I remember you,” Moneypenny said, voice ringing with concern. “Is everything okay?”

Greg hesitated; Moneypenny might have top level clearance for issues relating to international espionage and intrigue, but he was still reluctant to disclose personal information about her boss’s family.

“Greg?”

“I’m here. Look, I tried to contact Gareth a bit ago but got his voicemail. There’s been a situation, and he’s needed at home. Can you tell him?”

“Of course. He’s in with the Secretary of State at the moment but I can get a message to him. What should I tell him? Is Mr Holmes okay?”

Looking up at the house, taking comfort in the fact that Mycroft was at least home and safe, Greg nodded despite the fact that Moneypenny could not see him. “Yeah. He’s physically fine, but if there are non-essential meetings you can get Gareth out of, do it.”

“He’s got a meeting in an hour, but I can re-schedule that. Can I give him any details? I don’t want to worry him if I don’t have to.”

Knowing that if he did not give her something there was a very good chance that the head of Mi6 would be sending every available double-oh on a mission across London, Greg thought hard. “Sherrinford,” he said after a long moment’s hesitation, hoping like Hell that Mycroft had at least briefed his husband on the situation with his sister. “Tell him that there’s been an incident involving Sherrinford. I’ll be with Mycroft until Gareth can get home, but—”

“I understand, Greg. I’ll get the message to him straight away,” Moneypenny said and hung up. 

Without a conversation to focus on, Greg became aware of how cold he had become, exhaustion making him feel the chill more keenly, and pulled his coat tightly around himself as he approached the house.

He pulled out his keys, finding the right one after a moment’s fumbling, and had the door unlocked in short order. 

“Mycroft?” Greg called into the cavernous reception hall. There was no answer, but the creaking of a floorboard directly overhead gave away his friend’s location, and Greg headed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The door at the end of the first floor corridor was slightly ajar. Greg pushed it open and entered the study, finding Mycroft sitting by the fireplace in his shirt sleeves, cradling a glass of scotch. “You look like Hell,” he told his friend, dropping into the chair opposite. He visually checked the other man for signs of injury, noting his mused hair and dishevelled shirt with concern.

Mycroft lifted his head and levelled his most potent glare at Greg. “If you have come to make fun of me, you can leave right now.”

“You know me better than that,” Greg replied tipping his head back to look at the ceiling. Mycroft and Gareth had been renovating the old house for months, but the ceilings were still in desperate need of attention. “Anthea gave me the basics when I was on my way over. Sherlock told me to make sure you’re okay last night; he’s worried about you.”

Mycroft looked away, staring into the fire. “I let them down. Both of them,” he said, emotion closer to the surface than Greg had seen since Mary had shot Sherlock. 

“Bullshit.”

Mycroft huffed and rolled his eyes. “Why are you even here? Should you not be with Sherlock?”

“He’s with John,” Greg replied shortly, not at all happy at the ease with which the doctor had been allowed back into his partner’s life. 

“Of course. Well, don’t feel that you need to stay on my account.”

“I’m fine here, thanks,” Greg replied, putting his feet up on the low table between them. 

“Really, there is no need—”

“Course there is. I’ve been told enough to know that you shouldn’t be alone right now. I won’t ask for details, but I’m going nowhere until Gareth gets home.”

Mycroft glared at him, but it did nothing to shift Greg; if his friend really wanted him gone, he would not be shy in telling him so, after all. “What have you been told?”

“Dangerous sister locked up in a high security facility that sounds a lot like Azkaban. She somehow escaped for long enough to cause a fuckton of problems and put the three of you through Hell. Do I need to know more?”

“No, that about covers it. If you’re going to insist on staying, make yourself useful,” Mycroft said, waving his empty glass in the air. 

Greg stood and took the glass, crossing the room to the well-stocked sideboard. “Did you know she was behind all this? The Moriarty stuff, I mean,” he asked, filling Mycroft’s glass with ridiculously expensive scotch. 

“No. I should have seen it, but I did not. I could not put the pieces together, and Sherlock could have been hurt. Eurus could have been hurt,” Mycroft replied, voice devoid of any emotion. Greg handed Mycroft his drink and sat back down, listening intently. “Ever since his birth, Sherlock has been the focus of my life. He was such an emotional child, so caring and innocent, and I wanted to protect him from the world. Eurus hurt him, tortured him even, before she was incarcerated and I despised her for it. I studied as many psychology books and journals as I could find and taught Sherlock how to control his emotions, to section off certain memories so that he could sleep at night, but he went a step further and created his ridiculous mind palace. I did not realise quite how much he had supressed his memories of her or Victor until I returned home from Eton the summer after she was taken away. If I had not taught him those memory techniques, the drugs, his self-destructive tendencies, the acceptance of violence from Dr Watson as his due, none of it would—.”

“—Christ, Mycroft, you were a child yourself! Your parents were responsible for his wellbeing, as well as yours and Eurus’, not you,” Greg interrupted, his friend’s self-flagellation too painful to hear. “You might have been cleverer than most of Mensa by nine but you were still a child. None of this is your fault and beating yourself up over it will get you nowhere.”

“Speaking from experience, Greg?” Mycroft asked snidely, swirling his scotch.

“You know I am.” His divorce from Kaz had been messy and he had had to fight tooth and nail to retain custody of Jacob; she had done her damnedest to lay all the blame for her numerous infidelities at his feet, claiming that he was negligent and emotionally distant, and he had believed her for the longest time, until Sherlock had pointed out just how much bullshit she had been spouting.

Mycroft sighed and sipped his drink. “Uncle Ruddy arranged her care, because our parents could not face it, and I saw fit to keep the arrangements as they were when he passed away, determined to keep her away from Sherlock at all costs. Had I been more vigilant—”

“—Do you even listen to yourself? Jesus,” Greg interrupted. “You might have fingers in every pie in London, but you’re only one bloke, Mycroft. You can’t possibly be everywhere at once.”

Standing suddenly, Mycroft crossed to the window, staring out into the distance. “I accepted many years ago that Eurus was beyond hope, but to almost lose Sherlock…” 

Greg could read his friend’s anguish in his posture as clear as day. He stood and walked towards him slowly, giving the other man time to object, but he did not. “He’s always had a piss poor way of showing it, but he loves you, you know,” he said, squeezing Mycroft’s shoulder. 

“Caring is not an advantage. I have told him that many times.”

Greg huffed a laugh. “No, it’s not, but we do it anyway.”

Silence fell, each man lost in his own thoughts, until the sound of the front door opening and closing broke the spell. Mycroft consulted his pocket watch, frowning deeply. “What on earth is he doing home?”

“I, ah, well. I didn’t want you to be on your own, and I knew you never would ask him to come home early, so I rang Moneypenny,” Greg said, backing away quickly. “Now he’s home I’d better get going. Check in on Sherlock, make sure he’s okay.”

“You did what?” Mycroft growled.

“Well, lovely chat. I’ll see you soon, yeah?” Greg said, making a swift exit before his friend could brain him with his glass. He met Gareth, looking almost as tired and drawn as his husband, on the stairs. 

“Thank you for calling, Greg. God knows that idiot wouldn’t have,” Gareth said, removing his cufflinks and thrusting them into his right trouser pocket. “I was informed that there had been a domestic incident but did not connect it with Mycroft’s _business trip_. I take it that whatever’s been brewing came to a head?”

“You could say that,” Greg replied, running a hand through his hair. “Why they don’t ask for help until the shit has hit the fan I’ll never know. Look after him?”

“Of course. Give my regards to Sherlock.” Gareth took the remaining stairs two at a time, quickly disappearing around the corner. 

Greg left the house by the back door, which was the closest exit to the main road. Just as he got out onto the street a black cab approached with its sign lit. He climbed Greg into the back of the taxi, relieved to be out of the cold, and gave his address.

Having not had much time to think since receiving the call out to Musgrave, the quiet of the back of the taxi was all it took to set Greg’s mind racing. A sister who was, by all accounts, far more intelligent than Mycroft, let alone Sherlock, and made the Holmes brothers seem the epitome of compassion in contrast. It did not bear thinking about. Greg did not need all of the details, for the state Mycroft was in and the fact that Sherlock had verbally expressed concern for his brother, in front of John, no less, spoke volumes. 

It was not until he was twenty minutes into the journey that Greg broke out of his thoughts enough to realise that the cabbie was not taking him home. “Oi, mate, this isn’t the way to Brixton!” 

“Yeah, because I’m not taking you to Brixton. Sherlock’s orders,” came the driver’s amused response. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Greg muttered and pulled out his phone. 

**To: Sherlock Holmes: Kidnapping is your brother’s trick, not yours**

Within ten minutes the car had reached Baker Street, and Greg soon found himself fumbling around for the key to another Holmes abode. Once inside, he pulled off his gloves and tucked them into his pockets, looking around curiously. Considering that a grenade had been detonated inside the building not too long ago, the ground floor appeared to be in remarkably decent shape, other than a strong smell of smoke and a thick covering of building dust. 

“Is it safe up there?” he called up to the first floor. 

Sherlock popped his head around the door and looked down at Greg. “Yes, aside from the hole in the middle of the living room. They have installed structural supports downstairs to hold this floor up.”

Greg ascended warily, eyes alert for potential danger. There were chunks of plaster littering the floor, and glass crunched underfoot, but he was working on the assumption that the health and safety bods would have had the whole house closed up if it was not safe.

“I would not have had your brought here if it were overly dangerous,” Sherlock said, stepping into Greg’s personal space when he reached the top of the stairs.

“I know, but a sodding grenade went off in here, Sherlock. Bit hard not to be wary.” Greg combed his fingers through his partner’s messy curls, dislodging some of the dust that had settled there. “You okay?”

“Hmm, yes. It has been declared structurally safe by a team of Mycroft’s people, but I won’t be able to live here for few weeks.” 

A glance through the door told Greg that ‘a few weeks’ was likely to be at least a couple of months. “You know that you'll always have a home with me, yeah?”

A crash from somewhere inside the flat interrupted their conversation, and Sherlock dashed back inside, Greg following close behind. The living room was, literally, a bomb site, and Greg looked around, aghast. Most of the furniture had been obliterated, and there was a great, gaping hole in the floor. 

“Bloody crazy woman,” John said, picking himself up off the floor, stepping carefully around the edges of the hole. He caught sight of Greg as he was brushing his trousers down and visibly tensed. “Mycroft okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Home and safe.”

John nodded. “Good. He was really cracking up back there.”

Greg fought the urge to throw a lump of fallen plaster at the other man, and Sherlock, ever perceptive, stepped into Greg’s line of sight and kicked the tempting debris out of the way. “I’m going to get some things from my bedroom,” he said and walked away, treading carefully. 

“So, you and Mycroft?” John asked, arms folded over his chest challengingly. 

“What about me and Mycroft?”

“Well, Sherlock dropped a pretty big hint back there. I didn’t know you went that way.”

Greg snorted. For all that John thought he was close to Sherlock, he did not have a bloody clue. “I was best man at his wedding a few years back.”

Had Greg not been so worried about his partner, the look of surprise on John’s face would have been hilarious. “Wedding? Some poor sod _married_ Mycroft Holmes?”

“Yep. Lovely ceremony it was, too,” Greg replied brightly, biting back a grin. “Sherlock was dead at the time, but the turnout was good otherwise.”

“The video you took was appalling,” Sherlock said, re-entering the room with a bulging duffel bag slung over one shoulder, looking incongruous against his designer suit. “All I could hear was Mummy sniffling and Aunty Mavis ranting about queers.”

Greg chuckled. “You’re lucky you got that much. They couldn’t have it done professionally because of the bigwigs present, so we had to improvise.” He looked at Sherlock, really looked at him, and quickly spotted the tell-tale signs that he was on the verge of flying apart at the seams; his hands were trembling slightly and his shoulders were tense to the point that it looked like it should be painful.

“Hang on,” John said dangerously, stepping closer to Greg. “Did you know he wasn’t dead?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Greg replied carefully. “I felt like something was off but I certainly didn’t think the bugger was running around the world doing God knows what, though.”

John clenched his hands into fists, breathing heavily through his nose. “You didn’t think to say anything to me? Not once?”

Sherlock huffed impatiently. “Really, John. What could he have said that would not have upset you? Your anger about that should be directed at me and Mycroft, not Greg.”

“Right, whatever. Come on, we need to pick Rosie up on the way home,” John snapped, picking his coat up from the back of the fire-damaged sofa. 

“Pardon?” Sherlock asked, and Greg thought the perplexed expression on his face was adorable. 

“We need to get Rosie from Harry on the way to my house,” John replied, as though speaking to child.

“I’m not going to your house.”

John scoffed. “Of course you are. Where else are you going to stay? With Mycroft? You’d kill each other!”

John’s attitude was grating on Greg’s last nerve; it had been one thing after another for months, exhaustion on top of stress on top of fear, and Greg had well and truly had enough. He opened his mouth, not entirely sure what was going to come out, but Sherlock intervened, placing a calming hand on Greg’s arm. “I’ll be staying with Greg. Considering everything that has happened recently, it would be best not to introduce any further upheaval to Rosie’s routine. With my irregular hours and the upset of having me there and then leaving again at this stage of her development, it is not a good idea.”

An ugly expression twisted John’s face but he nodded. “Of course, fine. Well, I’d best be off or Harry will kill me,” he said with a falsely jaunty wave and marched out of the flat, ever the soldier. 

As soon as the main door closed Sherlock’s posture relaxed, his tall frame seeming to fold in on itself like a house of cards. Greg stepped forward and took the holdall out of his hand, dropping it to the floor between them, and took Sherlock into his arms. The other man stiffened briefly but then gave in to the offered comfort, lowering his head until it rested on Greg’s left shoulder and wrapped his own arms around Greg’s waist. They stayed like that, perfectly still, until they were breathing in sync and Sherlock’s trembling had subsided. “I need to see Molly. To explain,” he said, emotion clear in his voice, muffled though it was through the thick fabric of Greg’s coat. 

Greg had no idea what Molly had to do with anything, but if Sherlock needed to see her then he was not going to get in the way. He looked at his watch, surprised to find that it was early evening. “We’ll stop at her flat on the way home. She should have finished work by now,” he said, stroking Sherlock’s cheek. “I don’t really know what happened, but it’s gonna be okay. You can stay with me as long as you need to. Just make sure you keep any dangerous chemicals and the harpoon I don’t know about out of Jacob’s reach, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded and stepped back. He crossed the room to the sofa and picked up his coat, giving it a shake in an attempt to get rid of the dust that had settled on it. As he shrugged it on, Greg could see the emotion leaving his face and his back straightening, like he was donning armour. He looked around the room, seeming to take in every detail of his destroyed home, before turning and striding purposely out of the door. “Come along.”

Greg made to follow but caught sight of Sherlock’s violin case, lying discarded next to a pile of debris. He quickly dashed across the room and picked it up, brushing as much plaster dust off it as he could. 

“Lestrade!” Sherlock called impatiently from downstairs, and Greg quickly made his way out of the living room and down the stairs. “Where did you find that?” he asked upon seeing the case. 

“On the floor. Figured we should take it with us; will be brilliant payback on my neighbours for the shite they blast out every weekend if nothing else.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but a small smile graced his lips. “As you wish.”

Back outside, it was bloody freezing, and Greg soon had his gloves out of his pocket and back on his hands. He was on the verge of suggesting that they walk towards the pub around the corner to flag down a taxi when one turned onto Baker Street. 

“Taxi!” Sherlock called imperiously, and the cab pulled up beside them. Greg let Sherlock give the directions because the other man knew where Molly lived and they settled down in the back of the taxi, pressed together from shoulder to hip. Greg fancied that he could feel Sherlock’s body heat, even through all their layers of clothing. 

The ride to Molly’s flat passed in silence. Sherlock was wound so tight that Greg was weary of starting a conversation until they were safely home and his lover had said whatever he needed to say to Molly, so he flicked through his emails and texted his ex-wife for an update on Jacob. After twenty minutes they pulled up outside a modern block of flats, and Sherlock jumped out without a word, slamming the door in his wake. 

“You all right to wait a bit, mate?” Greg asked, mentally calculating how much cash he had on him. 

“I can wait as long as you can pay for.”

“Cheers.”

The wait for Sherlock to return was almost unbearable, so much so that Greg even found himself browsing Facebook. Apparently Donovan was off on a girls’ night out and his sister was at the races. It all seemed a world away from what was going on in his life, and the respite the glimpses into other peoples’ lives gave eased some of the tension from his shoulders. 

He became so engrossed in Kaz’s most recent pictures of Jacob that he missed Sherlock approaching the taxi, and jumped when the other man opened the door. His face was pale, lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes were bright. He sat down, back rigid and hands clenched into fists on his knees. 

Greg called out his address and, as the taxi merged into the traffic, took Sherlock’s closed hand into his own. Stroking the back of his hand, Greg gently unfurled Sherlock’s fingers before lacing them with his own. “Molly okay?”

“She hates me, but she’ll be fine,” Sherlock replied abruptly, staring out of the window. He tightened his grip on Greg’s hand, though, and Greg could feel the tremors running through him. “We thought Eurus had planted explosives in her flat. My sister intimated that, unless I could get Molly to declare her love for me, she would detonate said explosives.”

“Jesus,” Greg said, stomach sinking at the thought of what Sherlock must have gone through. “Did she—”

“Yes. She would not say it unless I said it first. I did not lie: I do love her. Not the way she wants me to, but I do. I didn’t want to do it, to mislead her, but there was no other way.”

“What happened?”

“I manipulated her. Made her believe that I am in love with her,” Sherlock replied. He shifted slightly and dropped his head onto Greg’s shoulder, their hands still clasped between them. “I explained, told her everything. Even about this…us. I know we haven’t discussed it, but—”

“—I don’t care if the whole world knows you’re with me, you daft fucker,” Greg replied, kissing the back of Sherlock’s hand. 

“She said she doesn’t want to see me again.”

Greg sighed, despite having suspected that it was coming. “Give her time. She’ll understand once she’s able to get past some of the hurt.”

Silence fell, again, each man lost in his own thoughts. Eventually they arrived at Greg’s house, a modest semi in a semi-decent area. Greg paid the extortionate taxi fare and followed Sherlock into the house, which was blessedly warm. “Why don’t you go and shower? Get that shit out of your hair and some clean clothes on and I’ll make us something to eat.” 

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock replied, propping his violin against the living room wall before disappearing upstairs with his bag. 

Greg turned the overhead light on as he passed through the living room to the kitchen, pushing random Lego bricks to one side with his feet as he went. His weekly shop was overdue, and, considering that neither of them had eaten for several hours, alphabet spaghetti on toast was appealing enough that Greg’s stomach rumbled. He snorted to himself and set about preparing the simple meal. 

Sherlock made it back downstairs just as Greg was carrying their plates into the living room. “I suppose it’s never too late to learn to read,” he said with a small smirk, and Greg was so relieved that he laughed far louder than the joke warranted. 

“Shut up and eat, smart arse,” Greg replied, pointing his fork at Sherlock. 

The younger man sat down, his pale ankles and wrists showing where Greg’s pyjamas were a bit too small for him, and picked up his fork from the coffee table. “He’s doing a good job of that pirate ship,” he said, nodding to the corner where Jacob’s half-finished Lego project was standing on his play table. 

“He loves that thing,” Greg replied affectionately, cutting into his toast. “Wanted to wait for you before he finishes it, though. Something about needing the captain to name it.”

A small smile lit Sherlock’s features. “When will he be home?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll be picking him up from afterschool club. You gonna be all right with him around, or shall I ask Kaz to have him for a few more days?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Of course not. We can’t finish the pirate ship if he’s with your ex-wife and the PE teacher, can we?”

Greg snorted and laid his knife and fork down on his plate. “I know it’s early but I’m going to bed or I won’t make it in to work tomorrow. You coming?”

“Yes.” Sherlock had eaten more of his dinner than Greg expected, but was visibly flagging. “That was surprisingly satisfying.”

“That was the gourmet option compared to the Weetabix,” Greg replied, stretching the kinks out of his back as he stood.

He left the room and climbed the stairs with Sherlock close behind. Too tired to shower, Greg brushed his teeth and stripped down to his boxers, leaving his clothes in a pile in the small bathroom. By the time he got into his bedroom, Sherlock was already curled into a tight ball at the edge of the bed, his trembling visible despite being covered by the quilt. “You cold?” 

“No,” Sherlock replied, voice muffled by the pillow. 

Greg sighed and got into bed. He wanted to comfort Sherlock, to show the other man that he was there, whatever he needed, but did not want to crowd him. Unsure of what to do for the best, he laid on his back, staring at the ceiling with his mind racing. After several minutes of silence, Sherlock shifted, slowly rolling onto his other side. Greg reached out and stroked his shoulder, which was apparently all the prompting Sherlock needed to close the distance between them. He moved closer until they were pressed together and pillowed his head on Greg’s shoulder. 

Stroking Sherlock’s back through the thin cotton of his pyjamas, Greg pressed a kiss into the other man’s damp curls. “You gonna be able to sleep?”

“I don’t know. I repressed so much and it’s all rushing back. It’s too much and I don’t know how to stop it.”

“I don’t know how to help, but it’s over now,” Greg said, continuing to stroke Sherlock’s back. Eventually the other man’s trembling subsided and his breathing evened out as he fell asleep. Greg kept it up for as long as he could, not wanting to do anything to wake Sherlock from his much needed sleep, but before long his eyes grew heavy and sleep claimed him.


End file.
